A book. Letters to a Young Poet, by Rilke. It was old, the cover torn, and worn on the edges. Small. Paperback. A dark purple with yellow text on the front. The pages dyed an "aged yellow"- the text bold. it was soft and flexible in the hand. a few pages in the center were loose from the binding.
One, whom I soon developed a very deep and loving relationship, gave me this book. It was late, on a Saturday. I was sitting on my bed, he walked up to me, and said, "Here, I think you will like this." This is the first, and ONLY used book I have received with such grace, and intent. Each night, I felt, even when apart, we were getting to know each other, as my "underlines" met his underlines. As I made room for my own notes in the margins. We have now since gone our seperate ways, as has the book. It was strangely lost mist my move to Michigan. Though, I miss it. Though I have married another, and have significantly moved on, this book became much more than a birth of a long-lost relationship. It spoke OF me at one of the most fomative times of my life. There, lie lines of substance- that have impacted my psyche- excited my intuitions. It is extraordinary because-as people come and go in our lives- there comes bits of purpose, arsonals of wisdom, and here is a joining of life experience. I have always thought, we exist, as people, for each other. And as much pain seeps or is of consequence, there is always some form of enrichment. This is what I remember- this book emblemizes enrichment to me, and when I came to learn of its loveliness.
"If you trust in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart...."
-Rilke "Letters to a Young Poet"